


pack it up.

by shutupnerd



Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Depression, Hajime and Izuru are a System, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Numbness, Oneshot, Recovery, Trauma, Vacation, but not really, did, mental health, not super cathartic, on brand, op pulls directly from real life, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25716544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutupnerd/pseuds/shutupnerd
Summary: numbness isn’t really a feeling, is it? it’s more of a lifestyle.(Or, hajime has trouble packing.)
Relationships: Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito, Hinata Hajime/Nanami Chiaki (past)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 103





	pack it up.

Sometimes, he’ll be in the middle of doing something. Something important, usually, with a deadline. And, without a reason, he’ll simply  _ stop.  _ Stare at his responsibility. Stare past it. Stare through it.

He is packing a suitcase to visit his mother. She has been found, she survived Junko’s reign. (Does she know that Izuru wasn’t the king to Junko’s queen? That he was the favorite servant, her torrid love affair that had no love in it? Hajime is afraid to ask. He cannot stand to cause the other more hurt again.) 

His shirts and pants need to be folded. Socks need to be matched. But he sits in the middle of it all (laundry hamper to his right. A box fan behind him. Clothes and a backpack in front of him. A black T-shirt in his lap.), unable to bring himself to do anything more than absentmindedly listen to the music that plays and stare at the door. He is faintly guilty, but it registers under a layer of...something.

_ Apathy, Hajime. It seems we share the same curse. _

He’s not listening to Izuru. He’s not listening to much of anything—except the music, of course.  _ The tempo replaces his heart rate, the melody now the blood in his veins. He can only hope the music stays upbeat, because if it doesn’t— _

He doesn’t want to move. Or get up. But his dresser beckons anyway, and he pulls out fresh socks and underwear without really looking at them. He’s not thinking much, because he’s not feeling much.

If this is how Izuru lived, Hajime can understand why he let Junko control him. Of course the stories are horrific. The physical reminders she left leave Hajime in a terrible guessing game as to what _exactly_ he will _never_ _ever in a million years ask Izuru about_ and only sadly suspect the origins of. 

He’s leaving for six days. How many shirts—he counts.  _ One, two, three.  _ They’re all white. Of course they’re all white. The black shirt sits on his lap. Black is Izuru’s color. He does not like it. He folds it and puts it on the pile.  _ Four.  _ He should have at least seven, in case something happens. 

Does he even have seven shirts that he likes?

There are only four pairs of pants. He can rewear those—he has two more in the washing machine, anyway. Those will be packed away last. 

There is a novel and a notebook by the backpack. He has read the book at least five times. It’s his favorite. (Actually, his second favorite. The first book is being lent to Souda. He doubts Souda will ever read it, but the sentiment is nice, right?) The notebook is where he writes for himself and Izuru. It would be a diary if he didn’t more often doodle than collect and record his thoughts. There are little drawings of himself and Izuru and Komaeda. He can tell which ones he made and which ones were created by Kamukura.

There’s one drawing of Chiaki. It isn’t very good, because Hajime isn’t very good at drawing. He was given the skill, but he refuses to listen to the tug of his hand and the whispered knowledge in his mind about proportioning and anatomy. He just wants to represent her as he remembers her.

She had to have died disappointed in him. He lied. He never got to see her again. She got Izuru, and that wasn’t fair to Izuru either, because Izuru didn’t know her, how  _ could  _ he know her—

He puts his forehead in his hand. The music cuts, and his ears pick up a high-pitched whine in the silence. It is always there, but he is good at ignoring it.

He asked Makoto for a gaming system. He got him a little Nintendo DS. Everyone else knew Chiaki better than him (it makes him just a little jealous, under all that nothing.), so he asked what they played with her.

He’s gotten pretty good at Mario Kart. 

He should be excited, and he thinks he is. But there isn’t really much there to go off of.

_ This is supposed to be how Izuru feels. _

And Izuru will always respond.

_ I believe you are simply depressed, Hajime. It is normal, after being confronted with difficult events. _

_ Then you’re depressed, too. _

_ I suppose I always have been. It is just as viable as a method of survival as any other.  _

_ We’re a train wreck, Izuru. _

_ Perhaps.  _

If they’re a trainwreck, they’re a specific one. There’s a silent film about a train crash. He feels like he’s stuck in one of them—colliding and crumpling in slow motion, unable to make a sound.

The silence is deafening.

The music plays on.

Only Komaeda has noticed how numb he is becoming. He has accidentally called him Izuru more than once.

Chiaki would notice. Probably. He hopes. 

(He doesn’t realize that everyone has noticed. They have been worrying in silence. They try to be encouraging, but they have their own struggles to deal with.)

That night, his packing is finished. It took him three hours.

He is laying down with Komaeda and watching a movie. Komaeda plays with his hair. Neither of them are really focused, he doesn’t think. Despite the summer, the room is cold and they’re huddled under blankets. 

Physical closeness is comforting, but too temporary.

They sit at a table later.

It is late at night, or perhaps early in the morning.  _ What does 3 am count as? _

He is honest.

“I act like I’m fine, but most of the time I don’t really feel much of anything. There’s nothing there.”

Komaeda nods and holds his hand.

He feels like crying. But he holds it back. Swallows it down.

The music plays on. The album is repeating, maybe. He thinks he has already heard this song.

he honestly doesn’t know. 

**Author's Note:**

> The music is AFYSCO by panic! at the disco. 
> 
> thank you guys for being there for me and listening to me ramble. i’m doing my best, and clean sheets will come back eventually. i’m just not mentally there yet.


End file.
